Death on the Pont Noir (3 page)

‘Yes. Something odd is going on, but it could be nothing. Second, get someone to check the garages in the area for a military-style Renault truck and a black Citroën DS brought in showing crash damage. Check the barracks, too, see if they’re missing a truck. And third, find out if anyone has applied for a permit to film on public roads in the region.’

‘Got it. You going to talk to the English?’

‘In a while. Let them stew a bit longer.’

‘You want me there?’

Rocco smiled at Desmoulins’ readiness to pitch in where trouble loomed. ‘Thanks, but Godard and his men are a lot uglier.’

‘Remember, nobody says nothing unless I give the nod.’ Tasker glared at each of his companions in turn: Fletcher, the grey-haired and heavily jowled bruiser; the two bottle throwers, Jarvis and Biggs, ex-soldiers in their thirties; and Calloway, tanned, slim and looking out of place in their company. They were gathered around a table bolted to the floor, in a holding cell big enough to take all five men. Most looked hung-over and jittery to varying degrees. ‘If any of these monkeys manages to find someone who speaks English,’ Tasker continued, ‘– which I doubt – we came over for some fun, got pissed and it got out of hand. End of story. We all clear?’

They nodded, either too cowed or too tired to argue.

Tasker sat back, satisfied they’d follow instructions. Biggs and Jarvis were green but would go with the flow. Fletcher had done some jail time, so he knew what the score was when it came to being patient. And Tasker had
served a couple of terms himself, several years ago, one for involvement in a bank robbery. He’d put it down to experience; it was one of many bank jobs he’d done, but the only one he’d been hauled in for and convicted.

‘How long is this going to take?’ breathed Calloway, studying his nails. Of them all, he seemed the most calm and untroubled. ‘Only I have a date lined up for tomorrow that I’d rather not miss.’

‘Tough shit, pretty boy,’ Tasker replied nastily. ‘You’ll have to give it a miss, won’t you? Just sit tight until I say so or there might be an accident happening in this cell any moment soon.’

Calloway looked unaffected by the man’s air of menace, but shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do. Anyone else got anything to say?’ Nobody replied. ‘Good. Now, they got to let us go soon, so we ain’t got long.’

Calloway looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t know French cops. They don’t play nice when it suits them, and those boys in blue weren’t being too gentle, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

Tasker shrugged. ‘So what? We’re still in one piece, aren’t we? It’s no worse than a dust-up down Brick Lane. You take the bruises and you get the money. They might not let us go today … but they have to sometime. We sit here until they do, then we go home.’ He grinned without humour. ‘It’s all part of the plan – and you’re being paid well for it, so don’t screw it up.’

The threat in his voice was a chilling reminder of his authority, and the men said nothing. Out in the corridor,
they heard footsteps approaching. The door was unlocked.

A uniformed officer stepped in and stood in the doorway. Big and ready, he was holding a short baton in both hands. Two others stood just behind him, similarly armed. The lead man pointed at Tasker with the business end of the baton and beckoned.

Tasker folded his arms and sat back. ‘You want me, Pierre, you’ll have to come in and get me. Only you might have to get used to wearing your little stick through your nose.’

The officer hesitated, unsure of what the Englishman had said. But the body language was clear enough. The three officers made a move to step forward, then a voice murmured behind them and they stepped aside.

Another man entered the room.

Rocco stopped just inside the door and looked around at the five prisoners. They stared back, clearly surprised by his appearance. What they had no doubt expected was a group of heavies coming in in force; what they were seeing was a taller-than-average man, dark-haired and tanned, with broad shoulders, dressed in a good-quality, long, dark coat and trousers and expensive shoes. And seemingly unconcerned by their number in the confined space.

‘Well, well. Look what the cat’s brought in.’ Tasker was the first to speak. ‘Fe fi fo fum … I smell a senior
frogeater
.’ He kept his eyes on Rocco but his next words were clear enough. ‘Shtumm, boys, remember.’

Rocco moved further inside the room. He was holding a handful of British passports. Flicking them open, he studied the contents at length, allowing the silence to build. Then
he compared faces with photos, going from one man to the next, staring them in the eye and noting their reactions. When he was finished, he slapped the passports shut and put them away, then studied the state of the men’s hands.

The big man, Tasker, was clearly the leader. Every group of individuals had one – even a group of violent drunks. And authority radiated off this man like an electric current. He was forty-five years old, married and listed as a businessman. He had the brutal appearance of a barroom brawler, although his suit looked expensive, if flash, as did the large gold rings on his fingers. Somewhere along the road of his life, someone had flattened his nose, and he had developed layers of old scar tissue over his eyes and was missing half of one eyebrow. He’d probably been a good puncher in his time, thought Rocco, eyeing his big shoulders and bunched knuckles, but with a poor defence. And judging by the fresh cuts and abrasions on his hands, he had been using those knuckles only a short while ago.

The second big man, Fletcher, was older at fifty-one. He had the dull eyes of a follower and a hard-man body going to seed around the edges. His clothes were also flashy, but cheap. He, too, was nursing cuts to his hands. Two younger men named Biggs and Jarvis were working hard at ignoring Rocco, but failing. They looked fit, like former soldiers or athletes, but beginning to go soft, their fingers yellowed by nicotine and reddened with scratches and cuts. Both were listed as customer managers. And then there was a man named Calloway, occupation professional driver, more French than English by appearance and somehow aloof from his companions. And smarter.

Rocco couldn’t think when he’d last seen such a mixed
bunch, and decided it would have been back in Paris. They would have been criminals, too, just like this lot, of that he was certain.

‘For your information, Mr Tasker,’ he said in English, looking at the big man, ‘my name is Rocco. Inspector Rocco. That’s a strange word, “shtumm”. Is it London slang?’ He held Tasker’s gaze but the man looked too surprised to say anything. ‘Is there a particular reason why your friends should remain quiet?’

‘Terrific.’ The soft murmur came from Calloway, on hearing Rocco’s easy grasp of the language.

Tasker glared at him, but said to Rocco, ‘Go screw yourself, copper.’

‘See, that is what I do not understand,’ Rocco replied, and looked at each of the men in turn. He walked up and down, forcing them to follow him with their eyes, each turn taking him closer and closer until he was right in front of them, and they were having to crane their necks to see his face. ‘Five … friends, come to France and have a little fun. They drink too much of our wine and beer – even a bottle or two of cognac, according to the bar owner – and end up drunk. So drunk they completely ruin a bar.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens, of course. Even here we are not immune to the odd
fracas
. But then the men prove … difficult when taken in for questioning.’

‘So?’ Tasker stuck his chin out. ‘What’s your point?’

‘My point, Mr Tasker, is why? Most people in your situation would be eager – is that the word, eager? – to get out of here. After all, our jails are not famous for being comfortable.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a constant source of national shame, but budgets are very limited. However, you
men are different. No, for some reason, you make more of this … episode than it needs. Almost as if you want to stay here. Is it the British military cemeteries which have attracted you to our region? I think not. It can hardly be the local fishing because you do not look like any fishermen I have ever seen. I’m just a little puzzled, that’s all. Perhaps we should talk about it.’ He studied Tasker’s eyes very carefully, looking for something, but failing to find it. It only added to his bafflement. He decided to unsettle him and turned to the three officers, pointing at Calloway. ‘Bring that man.’ Then he turned and left the cell.

‘Hey!’ Tasker was on his feet in an instant. ‘Come back here, copper! Why aren’t you questioning me?
Hey – frog!
’

But Rocco’s footsteps were already fading along the corridor.

Tasker could only watch as the officers lifted Calloway from his seat and took him away.

‘One of my colleagues,’ Rocco said in a conversational tone when they were all seated in a room upstairs, ‘recognised you from Le Mans a few years ago. You were good, he says, but your team let you go after an accident. Is that correct?’

‘Something like that.’ Calloway shifted in his seat. It was clear even to Rocco from his accent that the former race driver came from a different strata of English society to the other men, and he wondered about the man’s apparent fall from grace. He was good-looking in a soft-focus kind of way, like a film star just past his prime. Clean-shaven and tanned, he’d clearly been following the sun. No doubt some women would find him attractive.

‘You do not seem at ease with those others, Mr Calloway. Would you care to tell me why you are with them?’

‘A couple are friends from way back,’ Calloway replied easily. ‘I heard they were coming here for a bit of fun and decided to tag along.’

‘Fun. In Picardie in December? What kind of fun would that be? You think we have skiing here?’

A wry grin. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’ The comment showed a level of wit and intelligence, highlighting further his difference from the other men.

Rocco flicked a hand sideways. ‘You call what you did to that café fun?’

‘Yeah, well, maybe it did get out of hand a bit. We’re sorry. Your English is pretty good. Where did you learn it?’

‘Here and there.’ Rocco reached across the table and grasped Calloway’s hands. The palms were clean and soft. Driver’s hands, unmarked by rough labour … or glass splinters from a wall mirror. He flipped them over. Not a scratch on the backs, either.

‘You didn’t take part, did you? In that destruction. Why is that? Were you looking after your hands?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Calloway was beginning to look uncomfortable under the closeness of Rocco’s scrutiny. He tugged his hands out of Rocco’s grip and thrust them in his pockets.

‘Of course you do.’ Rocco stood up and grabbed the Englishman by the collar and lifted him off his feet with no great effort. He sniffed. Aftershave, like old leather, but sweeter. Calloway was a man who cared about his appearance, unlike his companions. Something else that set him apart.

‘You are not drunk, either.’ Another oddity. He released the driver, who flopped back into his seat, his face suddenly pale under the tan.

Calloway tugged his collar down and looked resentful. ‘I don’t need it, that’s why. I only drink to be sociable. The others, though … they expect it.’

‘Do you always do what they want?’

‘I like a quiet life.’

‘You were not alone.’ When Calloway looked puzzled, Rocco explained, ‘The leader of your little group of violent drunks: Tasker. He has had a few drinks, but he’s a long, long way from being drunk.’

‘I don’t know how you can tell.’

‘His eyes are too clear and his movements too relaxed. Believe me, as a policeman in Paris, I’ve seen more than enough to be able to read the signs.’

‘I’m sure. Look, Inspector, is this going to take long? I know we did a lot of damage, and I’ll be happy to pay for my share, but I have to be back in England for work in a couple of days.’

‘Your share?’ Rocco pulled a sheet of paper towards him. It listed the property of each of the men arrested. ‘You have just over thirty pounds sterling on you, your colleagues even less. Except for Mr Tasker, who has rather more. Quite a lot more, in fact.’ He looked up. ‘How do you propose to pay? I should warn you we don’t take cheques.’

‘Tasker will cover it.’

Before Rocco could respond, the door opened and Detective Desmoulins appeared.

Rocco beckoned him in.

‘I’ve checked all the hospitals,’ Desmoulins explained. ‘No bodies, serious injuries or records of facial damage since last weekend. And no permits issued for filming. The truck and car search is going to take longer.’ He gestured at the Englishman. ‘Is he being cooperative?’ He flexed his muscular shoulders and rubbed his knuckles with a menacing grin, which made Calloway shrink in his seat.

‘No. Not really.’ Rocco pursed his lips and sat back. He wasn’t going to get much from this man, and the others were clearly too in awe of Tasker to say anything. A waste of time, therefore.

He said to the guards, ‘Take him to a separate cell and bring Tasker.’

When they brought the big man upstairs, he came without a fight, Rocco noted. He wasn’t surprised; he’d seen it before in groups with an obvious hierarchy. Better for the lead man to go voluntarily and try to score a point in front of his men than to be dragged out ignominiously by the heels.

He pointed to the chair. ‘Sit.’

Tasker did so, a sly smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. He glanced round at Desmoulins, and gave him a sneer, but pointedly ignored the two members of Godard’s squad who had brought him upstairs and were now standing by the door. ‘What’s up, copper, safety in numbers? Got to go mob-handed?’ When there was no answer, he changed tack. ‘Calloway give you the old silent treatment, did he? You should learn how to speak nice to people.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Where is he, by the way?’

Rocco eyed him coldly. The more he saw of this man the less he liked him. Very few people affected him this way – usually the worst of criminals or the most pompous of officials. But there was something about Tasker which went beyond the norm. It was as if he were trying deliberately not to be liked.

And that puzzled him.

He emptied an envelope containing Tasker’s personal effects onto the table. A large amount of cash in sterling and
francs, a cheap pen, a packet of mints, a contraceptive in a foil packet, a comb, a wallet, a small key with no brand name.

‘I said, where’s Calloway?’ Tasker growled.

‘He is in another room, writing a statement.’

‘Statement?’ Tasker frowned, then sat up suddenly as Rocco picked up the key. ‘Hey – that’s my stuff!’ He reached forward but was brought up short by Desmoulins clamping a muscular hand on one shoulder and slamming him back in his chair.

Rocco signalled for Desmoulins to let him go, then dropped the key back on the table. ‘No need to get excited, Mr Tasker. It is merely “stuff”, as you call it. What is so special about it – apart from the money? That is a lot to be carrying around with you.’

‘That’s a crime in this poxy country, is it?’ Tasker’s eyes glittered and he suddenly relaxed, looking away from Rocco. ‘Like having a bit of fun.’

‘Of course not.’ Rocco dropped a finger on the key. ‘What is this for?’

Tasker’s face went blank. ‘No idea. It’s not mine. Probably someone else’s crap.’

Rocco changed tack. ‘I brought you up here to give you a chance to … spill the beans, isn’t that the expression?’

‘About what?’

‘About what you are doing here and why you wrecked the bar.’

‘We were visiting, that’s all. Like you said, seeing the cemeteries, a bit of food, some drink.’ He shrugged. ‘Yeah, okay, a lot of drink. The boys can get a bit excitable when they get away from the manor. Don’t tell me you’ve never let rip before.’

‘Manor?’

‘The area where we live.’

Rocco gave a cold smile. ‘Somehow I did not think you meant a big house.’ He scratched his chin. ‘So, you came for a visit and … it got out of hand. Is that all? Only, I have to say, Mr Tasker, the more I think about this, the more it seems to me to have been almost … deliberate.’

Tasker shrugged. ‘Think what you like. That’s all I’m saying.’ He scowled. ‘What’s Calloway making a statement about?’

‘What do you think? About your visit. He’s being very cooperative.’

There was a knock at the door. One of Godard’s men opened it to reveal a
gardienne
– a woman officer – standing outside. She was slim, with short auburn hair and freckles across her nose.

Alix Poulon, Claude Lamotte’s daughter.

At a nod from Rocco, she entered and placed a sheet of paper on the table in front or him. It was an estimate given by Madame Mote at the
Canard Doré
of the damage to the bar. Rocco whistled silently. She might have been shocked by the events, but it hadn’t prevented her making an itemised and generous assessment of what she felt they were owed. He pushed it to one side and looked up to find Tasker’s eyes fastened on Alix with the gleam of a predator.

‘So, you got women cops now,’ Tasker breathed, his eyes travelling slowly up Alix’s body. ‘Nice uniform. She fills it out well, too. Perks of the job, eh?’ He glanced slyly at Rocco. ‘Bet you been there and done that, ain’tcha, Rocco?’ He laughed outright, his tongue flicking obscenely across his upper lip. ‘I heard Froggie tarts know a few
tricks. Never tried one meself. Maybe I should, eh?’ He gave Alix a slow grin. ‘Maybe I’ll come back sometime and we can get together – what do you say?’

Rocco held up a hand. It was enough to stop Desmoulins and the two guards from moving forward. They hadn’t understood Tasker’s words, but the meaning was obvious, and Alix Poulon was sufficiently highly regarded around the station to engender an instinctive need to protect her.

‘Take him downstairs,’ Rocco said quietly.

‘What a horrible character,’ said Alix, once the men had gone. ‘What did he say?’

‘I think you can guess,’ said Rocco. ‘Men like him, their vocabulary is about as limited as their imagination.’

He decided he’d had enough. He’d let the magistrate deal with them in the morning and send them home again. There were far more important things for him to deal with than a bunch of drunks, no matter how unpleasant they were.

‘Three mysteries in one day,’ he said aloud, and picked up the small key. ‘A vanishing
cinéma vérité
film crew, a missing body and a bunch of English hard men who don’t know when to go home. And,’ he added, ‘I wonder why Mr Tasker was lying about this little item?’